


be my baby

by alisdas



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dirty Dancing, Dirty Dancing, Discussion of Abortion, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert, Secret Relationship, Slight enemies to lovers, bucky's hips don't lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 06:22:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22491496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisdas/pseuds/alisdas
Summary: A summer spent at Kellerman’s Mountain House sees you discovering the truth about yourself.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 49





	be my baby

_ That was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me ‘Baby’ and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot -- before the Beatles came, when I couldn't wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I'd never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Kellerman's. _

_ Kellerman’s Mountain House _ is a sleepy resort tucked away at the base of the Catskills -- the type of place that’s a  _ magnet  _ for old couples and big families and trust fund teens. It’s charming, in that rustic, old-school way -- all warm, cozy cabins and fields of green, with a large white manor smack dab in the centre of the property. In the early morning the entire place looks like something out of a fairytale, swathed in strings of peach and burning orange, dipping in and out of the spiny leaves of pine trees. 

Your father -- a doctor -- knows the owner, Max Kellerman. _ It’s the only reason he agreed to take a break,  _ your mother had said in the car disapprovingly, _ the workaholic _ . Your father only peeked over his chair, one hand on the steering wheel, and winked at you. You smiled back and your sister had grimaced, rolling her eyes. But it had always been that way -- you were daddy’s girl, and she was mommy’s princess.

But back to Kellerman’s. There’s a gazebo that overlooks the most  _ beautiful _ lake -- it’s where the mambo classes happen. Well, as close as you can get to mambo when your class is mainly composed of grandmas and grandpas shaking their hips in their Crocs. On Wednesday evenings there’s competitive chess, on Tuesday afternoons there’s wig trying, on Saturdays and Sundays the golf course is thriving and on Thursday nights the bingo starts. 

It’s nice. Well, of  _ course _ it’s nice. Your parents wouldn’t settle for anything less -- nothing in your life had been  _ less _ than perfect. You’ve got a nice house, a well-off family, prospects for a career. In fact, you’re convinced that your entire life’s dreams have already been planned out for you. Something that’ll go a little like: joining the Peace Corps, getting a degree in social science, meeting a nice man with the same political views as your Pop, and squeezing out a few babies.

(You don’t try and think too much about it. Maybe if you do, you’ll realise that they don’t actually really seem like  _ your _ dreams…) 

Existential crises aside, Kellerman’s was enjoyable--

(Even when Max’s grandson, Neil, danced too closely with you at dinner and tried to both feel you up  _ and  _ explain that he’s  _ the most sought after bachelor in New York.  _ With his too-wide smile and too-wide eyes, you’ve taken to calling him _ Creep Kellerman. _ )

\-- and especially when you factored in the  _ extra  _ extra-curriculars.

You discovered it ambling about the near-dead Kellerman’s grounds near midnight, following the sudden sound of music — the type of music that Kellerman's  _ didn't _ play. Soul music –  _ young _ music. 

You'd stumbled upon Steve — one of Kellerman's workers that'd greeted you when you first arrived — trying to haul  _ much  _ too many watermelons along somewhere. They were spilling over his twiggy arms and onto the ground and, well, you couldn’t just stand there and  _ stare _ , could you? So you hauled a few up and asked him where they were going, figuring that they were most likely headed to the kitchens. When he objected (“You shouldn’t be here, Baby -- no guests allowed!”) your curiosity was peaked. 

It was when you dropped the watermelon back into his trembling arms that he caved and sighed.

_ “Can you keep a secret?” Steve asked. You nodded, eager, and he glanced over his shoulder, puffing out his cheeks tiredly. “Your parents would kill you. And Max would kill  _ me _ …” Another sigh, but he relented. “This way.” _

_ He’d led you up a narrow set of stairs, past the gazebo, and past what you assumed were the worker's quarters — a series of tiny cabins lined up — before he came to what looked like a small repurposed tin warehouse, and pushed open the doors with a grin. What you’d discovered that night had left your more innocent self shocked, curious, and just a  _ tiny _ bit excited.  _

_ Dancing.  _ Dirty  _ dancing. A dimly lit room filled with smoke and booze and writhing couples, girls with their legs wound around their fella’s hips, chests flush together, nose to nose. A girl directly in front of you bent backwards till her hair brushed the floor -- and then she popped straight back up, meeting her partner’s lips in a sloppy kiss that made your cheeks heat up. You suddenly felt  _ extremely _ out of place in your knee-length dress and cardigan. _

_ Wide-eyed, you turned back to Steve. “Where’d they learn to do that?” This was nothing like ballroom or cotillion. This was raw power, complete sexual energy. It almost made you uncomfortable to look right at them -- it all seemed so  _ intimate _. _

_ “Where?” Steve shrugged, readjusting the watermelons in his arms. “I don’t know. The kids are doing it in basements back home.” He shook his shoulders back and forth, then, grinning teasingly. “Wanna try it?” _

_ You shook your head briskly, as if your neck couldn't move fast enough to answer, and he chortled. He began towards the crowd. “Come on then, Baby.” _

_ But even when you set down the watermelons beside the table of drinks across the floor, you still found yourself staring into the mass of dancing in front of you. It was hypnotic, something you’d never seen before. It was like being exposed to an entire different  _ world _. Steve nudged your arm, nodding towards them. _

_ “Can you imagine dancing like this on the main floor, home of family fox-trot?” He said, eyebrows raised towards his forehead, and you understood completely. Your mother would be completely aghast if she saw this type of dancing. Your father would have a heart attack. And the other guests? Jeez, Kellerman’s would be outta business before you could say  _ grinding _. “Max’d close the place down first!” _

_ A sudden round of cheers erupted as two figures ran through the doors -- you hardly recognised them, with the man’s suit jacket abandoned and shirt unbuttoned halfway, and the lady’s hair unpinned and combed through messily, her longer dress exchanged for something short, flowy, and utterly scandalous. _

_ It was Kellerman’s renowned dancing duo -- James and Natasha. Kellerman’s crown jewel.  _ _ During the evening dinners they were the first to the floor and the last off, swinging and twirling and stepping in such a way that made everyone envious (and want classes, too, which is what they were there to promote, you guessed).  _

_ They were glitz and glam, a slice of Hollywood in rural New York. Natasha, with her movie star cardinal hair and thick lashes and ruby lips. James, with the blue Sinatra eyes and the dark floppy hair and large, broad build. He was the apple of every lady’s eye every night.  _ Even  _ the married ones. _

_ Your  _ _ eyes widened even more, if possible, when James slipped right into the rowdiness like it was instinct, accepting a drink offered to him somewhere in the crowd and chugging it back in seconds. And then, Natasha and him joined the dancing. _

_ If you thought their mambo act had been phenomenal, this-- _

_ This was  _ magic _. They moved like they were one, each move transitioning smoothly despite the fact that there was no routine -- one second Natasha’s leg was by his hip, the next she was throwing her hands up, James’ arms wound around the small of her back. Their energy was contagious, and the rest of the crowd could sense it. Some even stopped to watch them, too. _

_ Steve’s eyes brightened, and he tapped you once more. “That’s my cousin! James Barnes. He got me the job here.” _

_ You were at a loss for words for a second. He was a  _ serious  _ hunk. Dark brown hair and blue eyes and a smirking face that looked all trouble. You swallowed, clutching the skirt of your dress in tight hands. “They look great together.” _

_ “Yeah. You’d think they were a couple, wouldn’t ya?” _

_ You glanced over at him, thoroughly confused. With the way they were all up against each other… “Well, aren’t they?” _

_ “Nah, not since we were kids.” _

_ As if punctuating Steve’s sentence, Natasha was suddenly hauled up, knees on James’ shoulders. There was a bright grin on her face as she flapped her dress this way and that -- and then she was bounced down again, back into James’ arms, all to the tune of  _ Do You Love Me?  _ by The Contours.  _

He must be super strong,  _ your mind supplied unhelpfully.  _ Really, very strong. 

_ You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when the song ended and the dance floor erupted into cheers. But almost immediately another one started up, and in the frenzy to find a dance partner you lost sight of James and Natasha-- _

_ That is, until the man himself jumps out of the crowd, hip bumping his cousin and nodding towards you. You almost jump at the weight of his eyes on you. “Yo, cuz. What’s she doing here?” _

_ Well, that wasn’t the first thing you thought you’d hear out of his mouth. A hello would have sufficed, really, though you suppose a hotel guest imposing on what was the workers' only freetime would rub some the wrong way.  _

_ Steve glanced over at you, all friendly and sweet. “She came with me. She’s with me.” _

_ “I carried a watermelon,” you provided -- a tad dumbly. _

_ And James simply looked at you for a second longer, before shrugging, turning and entering the fray again. _

_ Your lungs let up finally, and you inhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of your nose. “‘I carried a watermelon’?” As if it wasn’t already obvious that you were out of place, you had to go and act like a scatter-brained dummy! _

_ But minutes later when James and Natasha were dancing through a the cleared line on the dance floor he caught your eye again, hips swivelling evenly and -- oh, God, he was coming over-- _

_ He grinned at you. Raised a hand. Beckoned you closer with one finger. And when you’d simply stared at him, wide-eyed and a little bit perplexed, he’d grabbed your hand and tugged you towards him, leading you into the crowd. When you looked back at Steve he’d only shook his head and smirked. _

_ You’d felt stiff, uncomfortable at first. There were bodies banging off of you, elbows prodding your side. Your body didn’t seem to want to move the way James’ was. He bent his knees, straightened his hips -- and then his hands were on you, correcting your form. You’d almost squeaked when he first touched you. _

_ “Shoulders straight. Knees bent, and…” He began moving his hips from side to side. You felt like an abstinent nun who’d never heard Motown before, finding yourself glancing at the crowd around you, feeling as if everyone was staring, when--  _

_ A gentle hand grasped your jaw, turned you back to face him. He pointed two fingers at his eyes. “Watch my eyes. Watch my eyes. Good.” He put his hands on your waist, then, tugging you closer until-- _

_ You exhaled shakily, almost glad to not have to look at where you were grinding against him.  _

_ “That’s better. Good. Now roll this way… Now watch how I do it." _

_ It was hard not to. He moved so passionately that it was hard to  _ not  _ be transfixed. “Good. And now…” _

_ He lifted one of your arms around his neck. Another hand crowded the back of your head, pressing your face closer until your noses brushed. All the while you rolled your hips to the sound of Love Man, lips splitting in an infectious grin -- James grinned happily along with you, twirling you around once more before-- _

_ The song ended, and you were left reeling from your last twirl. James disappeared into the crowd to find another partner, leaving you breathless and excited and looking all too forward to doing that again. _

So, the first time you met he’d been sweet and taught you how to dance and how to loosen your hips -- but by the next day he’d done a full 180 and turned into a real jerk. Brushing you off when you tried to talk to him by the golf courses, snapping with every second word. Turns out that without drink in his system customer amiability was foreign to him -- which made what happened next even  _ harder  _ to agree to.

Natasha was pregnant -- one of the waiters, a guy called Rumlow, a guy Natasha had loved and given everything to. He dropped her like trash to pursue some rich guest whose daddy was probably going to pay for his medical school fees, leaving Natasha knocked up and solo. She needed an abortion -- a very  _ illegal, expensive  _ abortion. Luckily, Steve knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy who was coming to stay at Kellerman’s that next week. Unluckily, Natasha didn’t have enough money. Luckily,  _ you  _ did. Or, rather, your father did. But, unluckily  _ again _ ...

_ “Thanks, Baby, but I can’t use it,” Natasha said, staring down at her feet. You could barely hear her over the loud music, but you heard  _ that. _ The few hundred-dollar bills in your hand seemed to wilt, arm hesitantly lowering to your side again.  _

_ Bucky stared at her, wide-eyed and mouth agape, but she only took his hand and put it back on her shoulder again, swaying to the music as they had been before you arrived. “What? What's the matter with you? You should take the money.” _

_ “I can only get her an appointment for Thursday,” Steve reiterated, leaning close to speak in your ear. The confusion must’ve showed on your face, because then he said: “They do their act at the Sheldrake Thursday. If they cancel, they lose this season's salary and next year's gig.” _

_ “What's the Sheldrake?” You asked, watching the hurried movement of the pair’s conversation. _

_ “It's another hotel where they do their mambo act.” _

_ Your brain twirls in an effort to find a solution. There had to be  _ some  _ way, there always was. You lift your head up, calling towards them: “Uh -- can't someone else fill in?” _

_ “No, ‘Miss Fix-it’. Somebody else can't,” Bucky huffed, breaking away from Nat once more. “Maria has to work all day. She can't learn the routines. And Janet has to fill in for Penny. Everybody  _ works  _ here.” His lips split into that dastardly, charming yet patronising smile that you were coming to hate. “What, you wanna do it? Take time out from ‘Simon Says’?” _

_ You were frozen, mind working overtime to get over the outrage his outburst had created, spinning to form a sentence, when-- _

_ “It's not a bad idea,” said Steve. _

_ Bucky cast an unimpressed glance his way. “It was a joke, Steve.” _

_ “She can move.” _

_ “It's the dumbest idea I ever heard of.” _

_ “I can't even do the merengue,” you input, eyes flickering anxiously between the cousins. _

_ Bucky throws his hands into the air. _

_ “See?” _

_ “You're a strong partner,” said Natasha, eyes growing brighter by the second. “You can lead anybody.” _

_ “Nat, she can't even do the merengue.  _ **_She cannot do it._ ** _ ” _

_ x _

_ “No!” _

_ “Oh, sorry. Sorry…” Bucky’s toes must’ve been bruised to hell and back at that point. You know  _ yours  _ are. _

_ “You don't step on the one. You gotta start on the two. Find the two. Understand?” Bucky restarts the record again. _

_ “I’ve never done any of these dances before,” you said exasperatedly. Your mind's all a flurry with steps and hip movements and twirls and for a second you really regret accepting.  _

_ “It's  _ one, two, three, four.  _ When the music starts, you don't dance until the two. Got it?” Bucky tugs you closer by your hips and you begin the steps again. _

_ x _

_ “Relax, relax.” _

_... _

_ “Breathe.” _

_ … _

_ A tired sigh.  _

_ “Remember the frame, Baby.” He sets your arms back up into shape. _

_ … _

_ And they fall instinctively once more. “ _ Nope _. Again.” _

_ x _

_ “You trying to kill me?” Bucky was groaning, clutching at his back from when you’d accidentally bent back too far seconds earlier. “You gotta concentrate! Is that your idea of fun?” _

_ You glared at him, panting, glistening with sweat from head to toe. Your tank top had been knotted up to underneath your breasts and your pants had been abandoned for a skirt. You’re tired and sore and you’d listened to this record so much that you thought you could hum it in your sleep, and you sure as hell didn't need James Barnes snarky ass on your back. _

_ “Wh-- oh, yes, as a matter of fact it is,” you snapped, blatantly sarcastic and completely at your wits end. “We do the show in two days, you won't show me lifts, I'm not sure of turns, I'm doing all this to save your ass, but I'd rather drop you on it!” _

_ The pitter-patter of rain seemed much too quiet, following your outburst.  _

_ Bucky’s heavy breathing soon evened out -- he squinted up at you and for a second you feared that his pride really would doom Nat. Yet seconds later -- still keeled over, mind you -- he glanced out of the open door at the torrential rain dripping off the bushes and trees, and sighed. “Let’s get out of here.” _

_ ‘Getting out of here’ found you out in the forest almost thirty minutes away -- where the rain had passed and left only dew-covered leaves and the smell of petrichor -- sitting on a precariously situated log above a tiny ditch. Bucky’s almost pleasant, now, all irritation seeped into the mud. _

_ He looked much softer this way, when he wasn’t trying to shoulder the responsibilities of everyone around him -- maybe he just looked especially goofy trying to balance on the log, stepping back and forth and waving his arms about to stay afloat. You saw his feet move in the same way you’d been taught during your lessons -- one foot forward, one foot back, step, step, step, sway. Even in his free time, dance was on his brain. It was admirable, the passion he so clearly held for it. _

_ “So,” you said on that note, clearing your throat. “where'd you learn to be a dancer?”  _

_ He shrugged, a strand of hair falling from the haphazardous updo he’d tackled his hair into, and you  _ really  _ wanted to-- _

_ No.  _ No _. Dangerous, dangerous thoughts. _

_ “Well, this guy came into this luncheonette one day and… we were all sitting around doing nothing. And he said that Arthur Murray was giving a test for instructors -- the ballroom dancer, y’know? So, if you passed… they’d teach you different dances, show you how to break them down, teach them.” _

_ At that, he sunk down into a lunge, holding an outstretched hand towards you. For a moment you expected him to pull a foil from his back pocket and begin to fence, but no: his hand stayed extended, eyes mischievous. _

_ You raised a brow. “What?” _

_ A devilish smirk followed the finger that was suddenly crooked in your direction. _

_ “Oh, oh no. No, no, no, you’re not getting me up there,” you laughed, shaking your head. “That’s not happening, Buck--” _

_ “Oh, come on, Baby.” He stuck his hand out further. “How’re you gonna trust me to catch you when we’re doing lifts if you can’t even trust me to catch you now?” _

_ Well, damn him. Maybe he’s right -- maybe he’s just distracting you with his charm and trying to get you into trouble. Either way, after a momentary glance over your shoulder you took the hand offered and allowed yourself to be pulled up, albeit scoffing and threatening to pull him down with you if you should fall. Immediately you began wobbling, heart lurching at the distance between where you were standing and the ground beneath, but Bucky was ready for it. _

_ He clasped your hands tightly together, one intertwined hand nudging your chin up to look at him. It’s just like that first night, you realised, and your sudden shortness of breath was very much attributed to that memory. Your cheeks are hot.  _

_ “Don't look down. Look here.” Look him in the eyes, he means, as if he’s not literally making you question every snarky comment you’ve made in your head about him, as if you’re not two seconds from springing across and kissing him silly -- log be damned. _

_ God, what are you saying?  _

_ “Good. And now…” _

_ His hand finds your waist -- yours already in their place on his shoulders. Even without music, you begin to move in sync. One step forward, one step back. _

_ x _

_ The Sheldrake performance was a hit. Well, almost -- you wussed out of the lift at the last second and had to improvise with an odd little shimmy that you wanted to completely forget. Bucky seemed happy, though, going so far as to scoop you up backstage and swing you around-- “You did great, Baby! We bodied that!” _

_ The rest of the night, however, wasn’t quite so sweet. _

_ When you returned to Kellerman’s it was to a paler-than-normal Steve Rogers, almost sick with worry. Natasha’s doctor hadn’t been all he was cracked up to be. “He had a rusty blade and everything, Baby. I tried to get in, I swear I did, but the door was bolted shut--!” _

_ Natasha’s skin looked sweaty and grey by the time you got to her. Her chest barely rose with each breath, and when you took her hand in yours she didn’t even have the strength to squeeze you back. So you did what anyone with a brain and a heart would do -- you put your fears aside, and you fetched your father from his bed, hurrying him towards Natasha’s quarters with his doctor’s bag. _

_ For an hour or so you and everyone else were shut out of her small cabin, forced to pace and wait outside. Steve’s knee hadn’t stopped bouncing anxiously in all that time. Bucky, from his place beside you, had simply folded one arm over his chest and laid the other across his lips -- only moving when, in a sudden surge of bravery, you took his hand in yours. He squeezed your hand so tightly that it almost hurt. _

_ It was terrifying, standing out there, listening to the low rumble of your father’s voice and the weak, papery replies that followed from Nat. Even more so, being faced with the reality of so many in this country. How many girls resorted to back alley crooks to fix their problems? How many died because of it? Natasha had had no choice but to get rid of the baby -- she wouldn’t have the money to take care of it, and her career would’ve toppled! And yet, what would have happened if your father hadn’t been there? If, by chance, you’d decided to go to Kellerman’s the year after? Natasha would’ve either kept the baby and be shunned for the rest of her life, or… or… _

_ When all was said and done -- Natasha, stable and asleep in bed -- your father opened the door, doctor’s bag in hand. He shut Natasha’s door behind him, face downcast, and the dread that crowded your stomach suddenly came from a completely new source: him. You could see it on his features: the masked disappointment, worry, confusion, anger.  _

_ Bucky stepped up, clearly relieved and grateful, hand outstretched so as to thank your father-- _

_ Your father waved him a way with a curl of his lips, continuing down the wooden steps and around the corner that’d eventually lead to the path that’d bring him back to the main Kellerman’s property. _

_ You were split between mortification, anger, apprehension -- you’d thought in some way that your father would understand. That was his job, wasn’t it? To help those in need, no judgement? All that talk about righteousness and morals and joining the  _ Peace Corps _ and _ have you seen the newspaper today, Baby? Atrocious, what they’re doing across the sea--

_ Why couldn’t he think the same way when the people in need were less well off than you? _

_ Still, you shuffled after him. It was the least you could do after he’d saved Natasha’s life. Halfway back to your cabin, he broke the heavy silence. “Was that what my money paid for?” _

_ “I'm sorry,” you murmured. You came to a stop outside the stairs led up to your cabin -- the lights were off, of course. It was well past midnight. Your mother and sister were surely asleep. “I never meant to lie. I just wanted to--” _

_ “You're not the person I thought you were. I'm not sure  _ who  _ you are, Baby.”  _

_ Your mouth dropped open, but no words came out. There’s a sudden lump in your throat, and you’re terrified that all you’d been quietly scared of was suddenly coming true. You were slowly breaking away from the mould carefully manufactured specially for you -- slowly pulling away from the plan set out before you. _

_ “I don't want you to have anything to do with those people. Nothing! You're to have nothing to do with them ever again!”  _

_ Is this how everything would end? A group of people you fit in with, a hobby that made you feel amazing and powerful and everything you’ve ever wanted to be? Cut down by your father because you enjoyed the company of ‘the help’ rather than the guests?  _

_ You’d never been so… genuinely terrified. Not scared by a tiny spider or dizzied at the prospect of heights but-- _

_ Authentically, completely terrified; of the fact that you might not actually be the girl you thought you were -- the one that would join the Peace Corps and get a good-paying job in politics before settling down with a nice, Democratic man and popping out a few babies. Terrified that everyone around you would change once they realised that  _ you  _ have. _

_ “I won't tell your mother about this,” your father finishes, furrowed brows casting a hard shadow over his eyes. “Right now I'm going to bed.” _

_ x _

_ Despite your father’s warnings you still found yourself at Bucky’s quarters the day after. You simply couldn’t frolic about after seeing your father’s blatant disrespect first hand. Bucky at least deserved an apology -- and a goodbye, maybe, if you were to actually heed your father’s words. _

_ You’d never been to Bucky’s -- all dance lessons took place in the empty warehouse that would become a hotspot once night fell, or the gazebo. There’d even been that time where you took your lessons into the lake. _

Knock, knock, knock!  _ Done in quick succession so that you couldn’t wuss out. You glanced over your shoulder, suddenly feeling very much exposed standing outside Bucky Barnes’ door in broad daylight. Anybody could see you from here if they risked a look behind the main property. You knew what they’d think -- a woman at Bucky Barnes’ door? Propositioning him, maybe. Trying to seduce him like so many of the guests do. Scandalous. Not a good look for your family. _

_ You’d begun rolling back and forth on the tips of your toes when the door opened -- and when you looked up, you had to restrain your jaw from dropping. After all, what kinda man answered the door shirtless? _

_ James Buchanan Barnes, that’s the kind. And he was all sweaty, too, lord help you -- he must’ve been dancing, if the music that followed him out was anything to go by. You managed to get a hold on your less-than-peaceful thoughts, clearing your throat and trying your best to avert your eyes. “Can I come in?” _

_ He stayed silent -- not angry, more curious, or even shocked to see you at his door. He stepped to the side, though, and you squeezed past him. _

_ Bucky’s room was large, but mostly desolate. The wooden flooring hadn’t been replaced in years -- creaked with almost every step you take. He’s got a bed through an open door at the back, a bathroom through another. The only thing he’s really got in this living space is a few chairs, a small table, a TV, and a few cupboards, one of which is stuffed to the brim with a record player and subsequent records. _

_ Bucky’s eyes flickered to you, almost bashful. “I got a-- I guess it's not a great room. You probably got a great room.” _

_ “No, it's a great room!” It suited him. It gave him enough room to practice his passion, move how he wanted to move without any of that family-friendly bull the Kellerman’s were pushing. And although not exactly a page out of  _ Ideal Home,  _ it’s cozy. Lived in. It had character, from the shirts slung messily over his chair to the bunches of plain white sheets piled atop his bed. _

_ (You desperately willed your mind to move on from thoughts of his bed--) _

_ It suited him. You liked it. _

_ Still, he moved hurriedly to clear a chair for you, plucking up the discarded clothes and sheets of paper lying atop it. He continued towards the record player, then, hands reaching for the pin-- _

_ “No, leave it on,” you said quickly. Almost unsure as to  _ why,  _ but when the soft sound of Sam Cooke continued playing you couldn’t help but smile. A glance at his face -- slightly nervous, slightly soft, all too much for your heart to handle -- and you remembered why you’d wound up there in the first place. “I'm sorry about the way my father treated you.” _

_ “What? No. Your father was great,” he began, bordering on gushing. “He was great. The way he took care of Natasha, I mean--” _

_ “Yes, but I mean the way he was with you, Buck.”... “It's really me it has to do with.” _

_ Daddy’s little girl, of course it was all to do with you. He had such high expectations, pushing his interests on you from when you were young once it became clear that your older sister preferred your mother’s interests. The second you even hinted that you may be on a different path, he’d become so cold, so disappointed. _

_ Bucky’s eyes found the floor at your hasty explanation. God, has it always been this awkward between you? This suspenseful? Surely all those dance lessons when you were in nothing but a leotard and leg warmers or your bra and shorts had made you just the  _ tiniest  _ bit closer. _

_ “Bucky,” you repeated, a tad hesitant, “I came here because my father--” _

_ “No. T-the way he saved her-- I mean, I could never do anything like that.” Those blue eyes widen, almost in disbelief, peering down at the lines pressed into his palms. “That was something. I mean, the reason people treat me like I'm nothing because I  _ am  _ nothing--” _

_ “That's not true!” You find yourself snapping, defensive. How could he say such a thing about himself? How could he not see himself the way you saw him? “You -- well, you're everything!” _

_ “You don't understand the way it is for somebody like me, Baby,” he stresses. “Last month I--I’m eating jujubes to stay alive. This month, women are stuffing diamonds in my pockets.” His jaw clenches. “I'm balancing on shit and as quick as a whip I can be down there again.” _

_ “No, it doesn't have to be that way!” After all, what had all those books and newspaper articles and protests been for? What would anything be worth if change couldn’t be made? _

_ Bucky laughs, wistful and verging on disbelief. When he looks up again, your heart flips at the softness of his eyes. You want to squirm beneath his gaze -- by the skin of your teeth you manage to stay still. _

_ “I've never known anyone like you,” he says fondly. “You look at the world and you think you can make the world better. Somebody's… lost, you find them. Somebody's bleeding--” _

_ Your answering laugh is self-deprecating. “Yeah, I go get my daddy. That's really brave, like you said.” _

_ Bucky’s brow furrowed, shifting so that he sat up straight. “That took a lot of guts to go to him, Baby. Don’t say that. I mean -- You’re not scared of anything.” _

_ What? _

_ The notion sounded utterly laughable. You’re scared of too much, full of too many emotions, too self-aware of the path to self-destruction you could be on. Your mouth started running before your brain could catch up with it. _

_ “Me?” You echoed, turning your head sharply to face him. “Me? I'm scared of everything! I'm scared of what I saw. I'm scared of what I did, who I am…”  _

_ You met Bucky’s eyes. Your stomach twisted. _

_ “And most of all I'm scared of--” You took a deep, shuddering breath, heart thumping in your chest-- “of walking out of this room and never feeling for the rest of my life… the way I feel when I'm with you.” _

_ The air stills. Tenses, threatens to pop and explode with each tension-filled second. Bucky stares at you like he wants to simultaneously run away and towards you. _

_ The record player comes to a stop with a _ pop! _ and a  _ click!  _ before the record changes. Solomon Burke, this time -- _ Cry To Me. _ How fitting. _

_ Bucky still looks as if he’s processing everything you’d said -- genuinely seeming as if he can’t fathom someone liking him past one night trysts and scandalous dance parties. Licking your suddenly chapped lips, you slip out of the chair and come to stand in front of him. “Dance with me.” _

_ He raises a brow, peering over his shoulder. “What, here?” _

_ “Here.” Your voice is a whisper.  _

_ And you did dance. _

It is both everything and nothing a secret romance is cracked up to be. There's the thrill of secrecy, of sneaking around, trading kisses when no-one’s looking, of finding his eye in a crowd of pompous hotel guests and knowing that he's  _ yours _ . But there's the inescapable thoughts of your future once the summer was over and you’d have to leave… the guilt of lying to your family. Because they couldn’t find out, of course -- your parents would see you trapped in your room until you hit 25. 

That’s why, when the doors to Bucky’s apartment suddenly open and your  _ private dance lessons  _ are interrupted abruptly, you both spring away from each other at once. You almost jump out of your skin -- Bucky just stands there, frozen, looking thoroughly peeved that you’d been bothered. And by  _ Creep Kellerman _ of all people, who you'd been avoiding ever since  _ the dinner incident. _

But here he is, standing in the open space of Bucky’s place, a clipboard in one hand and creepy too-wide smile painted on his lips. He glances over at you, cheerful and just the slightest bit suggestive. Enough to make your skin crawl, at least. “Takin' dance lessons? I could teach ya, kid.”

You can only hug your arms close to yourself, sending him a plastic smile. Meanwhile, Bucky drifts over to his record player, ridding the air of the sound of  _ Love is Strange.  _ And Neil, completely uncaring of the fact that he’s interrupted your ‘dance lesson’, simply clicks his pen and steps closer to Bucky.

“My grandfather put me in charge of the final show. I want to talk to you about the last dance. I'd like to shake things up a bit; you know, move with the times.”

Ah, Kellerman’s annual show. A few hours of guests singing, dancing, showing off their mediocre talents, before the  _ actual  _ talent stepped in and finished the night off. Natasha and Bucky, apparently, have been performing the same bit for the past few years, and you  _ know  _ he’s buzzing with ideas and creativity -- he lives and breathes dancing, after all, and you find yourself suppressing a smile when he immediately takes off talking.

“That -- that’s great! I've got a lot of ideas -- I've been working with the staff kids on a cross between a Cuban rhythm and soul dancing… it goes kinda like--” He begins a step, but Neil’s already ready to put a stop to it.

“Whoa, boy. Way over your head here! You always do the mambo, huh? Why not dance this year's final dance… to the pachanga?” Neil holds his hands out like he’s made the biggest, boldest revelation of the year.

You wince, a hand coming up to shield your eyes.  _ Jeez _ .

Bucky’s face drops, lips a tight line. His voice is monotonous and flat when he speaks next: “Right.”

“ _ Well _ ,” Neil says, words drawn out and eyes wide in that sickeningly patronizing way that makes you  _ furious _ , “you're free to do the same, tired number as last year if you want… but next year we'll find another dance person who'll only be too happy--”

How disgusting! You’re glad the slimy little punk isn’t facing you, you wouldn't be able to control the mix of emotions that contort your features. He’s not even trying to hide his threat! And a stupid one, at that: Bucky’s one of the most talented people on the premises -- he gets people coming back every year! Good luck trying to find another like him.

You expect Bucky to say this. You expect him to narrow his eyes and puff his chest and tell Neil to go fu--

“Sure, Neil. No problem.” Bucky throws the towel he was using to wipe his hands on the table beside him. “We'll end the season with the pachanga. Great idea.”

Neil stares at him for a few more seconds -- stewing in his newfound power, obviously, and you’re halfway to kicking him out yourself when he turns to you. “Sometimes he's hard to talk to, but the ladies seem to like him.”

And if that wasn’t derogatory enough, on the way out--

“See that he gives you the full half-hour you're paying him for, kid!”

Bucky is fuming as he walks ( _ storms _ ) you back to the main Kellerman’s grounds -- completely and utterly steaming as you make the journey up the small hill that cuts his quarters off from the main property, and you don’t blame him.

“That little wimp,” he scowls. “He wouldn't know a new idea if it  _ hit  _ him in the pachanga. I coulda told him some new ideas.”

“Why did you let him talk to you that way?” You say, breathless, trying to keep up with him.

“What, fight the boss man?” It's a scoff, handsome face scarred with anger.

“You tell him your ideas! He's a person like everyone else, I’m sure if you--”

“ Look, Baby, I know these people. They are  _ rich  _ and they're  _ mean _ . They won't listen to me.”

“But why not fight  _ harder _ ?” You can’t wrap your head around it. If you want something you fight for it, right? But Bucky’s too reluctant. And what for? “ _ Make _ them listen--”

“Because I need this goddamned job lined up for next summer! Y’know, my dad calls me today.” He laughs, though there’s no humour in it. “‘Good news,’ he says. ‘Uncle Paul can finally get you in the union.’”

“What union?” You say.

He stops in his tracks, then, chest heaving and monumentally less angry -- just sad,  _ frustrated _ , and you step closer carefully, taking a hand in yours. Bucky, bless him, looks completely heartbroken — and when he speaks, it's with bitterness. “ _ The House Painters and Plasterers Local Number 179,  _ at your service.”

You reach a comforting hand up to the side of his neck, but he frowns, turning to walk again when--

“Daddy, d’you think that--”

It’s your sister and your father, coming out of the foyer from what you can only expect was lunch. You almost yelp, quickly tugging Bucky down to the ground by his elbow until you’re both kneeling in the dirt. You watch closely, until they cluelessly round the corner and are out of sight.

A few seconds of panting ensue -- you bite your lip nervously when Bucky’s face darkens with a scowl.

“I don't think they saw us,” you offer, as if it will help his mood. You have a feeling, though, as he rises slowly to his feet, jaw set and fists clenched, that it didn’t.

“Fight harder, huh?” He nods, though it’s acidic and discontented. He meets your eyes once more,  __ Adam’s apple bobbing heavily with the weight of his vexation. “See, I don't see you fightin' so hard, Baby -- I don’t see you runnin’ up to Daddy, tellin' him I'm your guy.”

You swallow, stomach sinking. “I -- I will. With my father, it's complicated.” And it  _ is. _ Maybe not quite as detrimental as his own predicament, but just as complex. “I  _ will  _ tell him.”

The second you say it you know that it sounds like a lie. Bucky shakes his head, lips turned down at the corners. “Y’know, I don't believe you, Baby.”

And he walks off.

You stew on that for a few days. With no ‘dance lessons’ to attend you’re stuck spending your time with your family -- and for the first time in forever you realise just how  _ terrible  _ they are. Your mother and sister are shallow and callous and they don’t seem to care about  _ anything  _ except what other people think of them. And your father -- always the preacher of morals and politics and freedom -- is a hypocrite of the  _ highest  _ degree. 

All of his advice and teachings, you realise, don’t apply for people he views as under him -- people like Bucky. People like Natasha, and Steve, and every other worker in Kellerman’s. You understand what Bucky meant now:  _ I know these people. They are rich and they're mean. They won't listen to me.  _

Everything seemed to go in one ear and out the other with them. If they weren’t talking to someone who made 6 figures it simply wasn’t registered.

How naive had you been? Going around thinking everyone gets the same chances as everyone else? You’re from a rich family -- you could afford a three month vacation in the Catskills, for Pete’s sake! You have almost every door open, yours for the taking. And Bucky, for all his passion and talent and charm, doesn’t have the same.

And you…  _ like  _ Bucky. Summer romance or not, forever and ever or not, you like him. Him and his dancing makes you feel powerful and -- and  _ strong _ . He deserves to know that much, you think. He deserves to not feel like a shameful secret.

You knock five, six, seven times on Bucky’s door before he opens it -- the sound of The Five Satins drifting past the open door and the gleam of sweat above his brow. His brow furrows, and he leans on the jamb of the door, confused. “Baby? What’re you--”

“I need to talk to you,” you say, breathless just from the sight of him. “I--”

“You sure you don’t wanna come in?” He comments, peering over your head. He’s still angry, that much is obvious from the offset of his jaw. “Don’t want anyone seeing you at Bucky Barnes’ door, do ya, Baby--?”

“Oh, shut up, you dummy,” you snap. Whether your irritation comes from your own anxiety or you genuine annoyance at your circumstances, you don’t know. Maybe both. Bucky, nevertheless, straightens up, blinks all bewildered -- but you have his attention now. “I’m trying to apologise, so let me  _ apologise _ , okay?”

“...Fine.”

That was… easier than expected. You’d been waiting for a fight. Some snapped words and rolled eyes, but--

“I didn’t mean for what I did to make you feel the way it did,” you say hurriedly, twisting your fingers together. Your bravado is quickly depleting. “My father and I -- well, I’ve always wanted his approval and--”

“And he wouldn’t approve of me.” Back to that bitterness, that cold acidity that has no right being in his voice and on his features. Because while everyone else might see a playboy, a womanizer, you know better. You  _ know  _ how positive and sweet he is, though he desperately tries to keep it a secret, how he calls his ma every second day because she worries about him while he’s away for the summer. He might not be the perfect man -- at least not in the eyes of your parents. He hasn’t got a ton of money and he’s not a doctor or lawyer but he’s kind and passionate and he  _ likes  _ you, and isn’t that enough? He’s a  _ good  _ man.

Maybe that’s your naivety talking again. Maybe you don’t care.

“Maybe not  _ now, _ ” you say, exasperated. “I won’t lie to you. But -- but he’ll come around--!”

“What are you  _ saying _ , Baby?” Stupid, stupid man. Were they all like this? Forcing you to say the words you can’t seem to get out of your mouth? Standing there, arms folded and eyes uncharacteristically wide, looking for all the world as if he wants to kiss you?

Still, you deflate, rubbing your eyes tiredly. “I… I really like you, Bucky. I like dancing with you and swimming in the lake, and the way you make breakfast, and how you always call Steve  _ punk  _ even though he’s like a brother, and--”

You cut yourself off this time, peering up between your lashes at the bewildered man above you. “I want you to be my guy, Buck. And even though I’m scared of what they might say, I… I care about you more.”

“Baby…”

“I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m ashamed of you, Buck, really, I’m--”

“Baby--”

“--but if you don’t want to, I mean, I understand, I won’t bothe--”

“ _ Baby _ !”

“ _ What _ , Bucky?!”

His eyes are just slightly glassy when he steps forward, holding your face between two sturdy hands. “Just -- gimme a kiss, dummy.”

Your chest heaves. “Who -- who’re you callin’ dummy, dummy?” 

But you give him one anyway -- right in the open, your hands on his shoulders and his on your cheeks, the sound of  _ Be My Baby _ settling over you both.


End file.
